


Monologue

by insouciant



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:44:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insouciant/pseuds/insouciant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When two people meet, each one is changed by the other so you’ve got two new people.<br/>-John Steinbeck</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monologue

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the ambiguity (no specific names being mentioned), I decided that story can be either thorki or hiddlesworth, so I went ahead and tagged both. :)

 

One time, with a smile on your face, you asked me, “You’ve always had a sweet tooth like that?” And instead of giving you an answer, I rather laughed playfully, emptying the rest of the M&M’s into my mouth.

.

.

You were a health conscious man, eating all the right food, keeping up the right nutrition, and working out like an addict, as I often used to tease you. How the hell did we ended up together? I’ll never be able to find the right answer for that.

You helped me, more like forced me, to quit smoking. “Smoking kills,” you’d say every single fuckin’ time I’d stick a cigarette between my lips, repeating the deadly warnings printed largely on the cigarette pack that I always seemed to care less about. I was careless about the poisonous effects smoking had on my body, but I couldn’t care less about you, you health freak bastard.

You didn’t like the idea of me munching on chocolate every time either, but I was already edgy from the lack of nicotine in my body. “Stop telling me what to do. I’m not gonna quit both of them at the same time,” I’d snap at you. You would smile knowingly, then, and placed your gentle, but strong, hands on my tense shoulders.

Sometimes, we fucked because we couldn’t contain that passion, that want within us. Tearing clothes, pushing and pulling against the wall, from the wall, to the floor, from the floor, on the kitchen counter, oh, how cliché, and finally, on we went to the bed.

But a lot of the times, it was an expression, a very bodily expression, that replaced words we decided to swallow. It was a sign of understanding, a consolation, an apology that we would express like hands on tense shoulders and lips on ear breathing love into our minds and silent words.

.

.

You would drag me out of bed in late mornings with a chaste kiss and persuade me to jog with you. Of course, more than ten years of smoking and lack of regular exercises, I would always end up walking more than jogging, but you were always right beside me, your hands sometimes tapping gently on my shoulder, arm, neck, another unspoken bodily expression of encouragement.

Bodily expressions. Physical gestures. Now that I look back, we were really good at that. We both enjoyed reading and writing. We were great appreciators of the beauty of words, and the powers they have on us. However, we never used them much, did we? An encouraging squeeze on the neck, a gentle pat on the shoulder, a flirtatious slap on the ass, and my legs that wrapped around your waist so desperately to guide you inside me closer, closer; all those without a single word spoken.

You always knew that I craved for a cigarette after hours of heated sex. But you also knew that I quit for the sake of both of us; actually, more for the sake of you than me, although it was my body suffering from all the smoking.

So you knew just how to please me. That night after we came so many times that we lost count, you left the bed naked to dig through your bag. I was biting my lips nervously missing the goddamn cigarette between my fingers looking at your perfectly toned body, your slender waist that I would always wrap my arms around, and your deliciously good looking ass.

You turned around with a box of chocolate. Tearing it open, you picked a random chocolate out of the many inside and put it inside your mouth. You crawled back to bed and crushed your lips on mine, parting my lips and pouring the half melted, bitter chocolate inside me. I moaned because, fuck, I was getting hard again and we already had enough fun for the night.

Licking the trail of saliva from my mouth, you said, “Life is like a box of chocolate. You never know what you’ll get.” I cracked up and smacked the side of your arm. We laughed for minutes afterwards for no apparent reason and you only made it worse tickling me until I started tearing up.

After our shower, you wrapped your arms around my waist in bed. I wanted to see your face, but you always liked to hug me from behind in bed and I let you have your way. “You never know what you’ll get and I want to be there with you,” you muttered as if you were talking to yourself. I never answered to that, did I?

.

.

Since that night, we continued this new “thing” of ours: picking a random chocolate from the box and sharing them together after sex. “You sly bastard,” I would say, because my cravings for chocolate went away like magic. Actually, that’s a lie. Let me rephrase that. My cravings for chocolate became a pleasant waiting; chocolates from you, more like with you, after sex somehow made them more delicious than ever.

I guess I’d fallen head over heels for you.

.

.

Time makes us forget, right? I guess that also applies to love, even the ongoing ones. We were still there, but we forgot what brought us together. We forgot that it was love that brought us together. We became two men living in the same house who knew each other very well. That was us in the end and that was the hurtful truth.

If I recall correctly, we made love—just because that was one of the routines at home—even a few days prior to our separation. But I remember there was no chocolate. I remember there hasn’t been any chocolate for a while. (It was like slowly killing a plant feeding it less and less water.)

When you packed your things and left, for the longest time, I just sat there in the middle of the house. Maybe I cried, maybe I didn’t. It wasn’t necessarily the fact that you left that broke me. I think what broke me more than ever was the lack of passion. I would have preferred if we shouted at each other angrily until the last minute. You know, love and hate, happiness and anger, they’re all a form of passion. How we ended this? It was… nothing. We became such… nothing. And that broke me beyond anything else.

.

.

My friends were so proud of me for moving on so fast. “He wasn’t worth it,” they said. Maybe I agreed, maybe I didn’t. I think I shrugged.

One day, I cooked myself a fancy dinner. Why the hell not? It was a great dinner. I’m a surprisingly good cook. After stuffing myself with good food and wine, my old cravings returned. My fingers itched for a cigarette, and soon for chocolates. Why the hell not? So I went to the nearby store and got a pack of my old cigarettes with a bag full of chocolates. All the while, my heart was beating with such incomprehensible guilt.

My hands trembled slightly as I returned home and opened the cigarette pack. After a few tries of flick, finally, my first drag in months spread inside my lungs.

 _Smoking kills_.

Your voice echoed inside me and suddenly I felt tremendously sick. Within a few minutes, I found myself in the bathroom, cigarette burning in the sink, while I retched all my dinner out into the toilet. Tears streamed down my face over and over.

I turned my back to lean on the wall. I saw the bag of chocolates dropped and scattered across the floor. I didn’t cry. I wept. I wept and wailed for hours until my body couldn’t take the stress anymore.

“I hate you,” I said as I wrapped the thick blankets around my body.

I hated you. I hated you for coming into my life and changing the ways of my life into what was convenient to yours. I hated you for making me give up what was mine. I hated you for making what was mine into ours. I hated you. I hated you because what was ours—that was mine to start with in the first place!—didn’t just go back to being mine again. I couldn’t even fuckin’ smoke a cigarette without thinking about you or eat a piece of chocolate without desiring yours lips on mine melting away the bittersweet together. You ruined it. You ruined everything.

I hated you.

I hated you because I missed you.

I missed you because I loved you (still).

So I hated you. I hated you more than ever.

.

.

One evening, I opened the door to my apartment to see you standing in front of me, pale and soaking wet from the cold, pouring rain outside. I invited you inside, handed you towels and spare clothes.

We sat down across from each other. You looked terrible. I wish I could lie and tell you otherwise, but you looked like crap. “You look like crap,” I blurted out. Our eyes met and then we both burst out in laughter.

You clasped your hand around my neck. “It’s good to see you,” you said with such relief and I saw the comfort on your face.

.

.

 _"There! Ah, right there!"_ I tightened my arms around your neck as you pounded inside me deeper, pushing into that oh-so-fuckin’-sweet spot. We fucked and fucked, leaving bruising handprints, not-so-subtle bite marks, come stained sheets, and two deadly exhausted bodies, our chest rising and falling quite dramatically as if to emphasize how alive we were.

I’m not good with keeping dates. I don’t like keeping up with dates. So I don’t know how long it’s been since we got back together, but the point was that we were together once again. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot,” you said as you left the bed to dig through your bag. I bit my lips nervously for a reason that is not craving for a cigarette.

It was a box of chocolate and I looked away. “I don’t want it,” I spat out. I saw your face surprised with a tinge of hidden hurt. “Don’t give me that false permanence shit. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” I said quietly as you crawled back into bed. You kissed me chastely on the lips before leaving to take a shower. I stared at the chocolate box thrown carelessly to the floor with no one wanting it. With a sigh, I got up to join you in the shower. I needed you. I needed your warm body next to me. Nothing else.

.

.

“I started smoking,” you whispered burying your face on the crook of my neck, hugging me from behind. “I started smoking whatever you used to smoke. My friends couldn’t hide their shock when I kept saying ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ endlessly. I stayed in bed doing nothing one day, eating nothing but pudding and chocolates, watching movies all day.”

“Well, you’re an idiot,” I commented placing my hand on his.

“I don’t know why I did what I did. I kept searching for stupid things in hopes of maybe I’ll be somehow closer to you, to feel closer to you. I couldn’t pass by the candy isle without thinking about you. Hell, I couldn’t even jog without thinking that you were behind me out of breath,” you ended with a big sigh tickling the back of my neck.

I realized then that I’ve changed you as much you did me. What was yours became mine and mine, yours. I guess that makes it ours. We broke parts of each other so we could fit together like a perfect puzzle. Oh, and how painful the process was!

“Don’t smoke,” I told you.

“Help me quit,” you answered.

“I don’t want any bitter cacao chocolates. You better give me the sweetest, softest ones for a very, very long time,” I warned you with my eyes closed.

I couldn’t help but smile when your arms tightened around my waist instead of giving me an answer. I drew patterns over your hands over and over, singing silent lullabies to you with my thumb until we both fell asleep with equally broken, beating hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated
> 
> also posted on [tumblr](http://ambiguouslines.tumblr.com/tagged/monologue)


End file.
